


The fall, the crash and the breaths in between

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Unrequited Love, aka set in the early 70s if the beatles didn't break up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: '"Right," Paul mutters, turning around. Their eyes meet for the first time, and the intensity dries John's mouth. He prays his brain would supply a sharp quip to drag down the seriousness, to prevent Paul from stepping closer and closer."One dull party, two best friends, years of repressed feelings and huge chaos.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 23
Kudos: 54





	The fall, the crash and the breaths in between

John wants to kiss Paul. That's a fact. Has been for over a decade now. A fact that has forced him to invent hundreds of strategies to suppress the urge to stare at his best mate with a dazed expression while his mind wanders too far into the dreamland. 

Like now, perched on a posh sofa in some stranger's living room, surrounded by laughing people he doesn't care about, John's eyes dart around, not satisfied till they land on the familiar figure. He allows his gaze to linger there, just enough to create an illusion of intimacy despite knowing Paul wouldn't reciprocate neither the glance nor the emotions. 

The man in question is standing next to a pretty girl, too close to leave anybody speculating about their intentions. John tries to imagine her in bed, concludes it an act requiring a pair of earbuds, a judgement based on high-pitched giggles being her only contribution to the conversation. It serves as an entertaining idea, briefly covering the hollow in his chest.

To tame those intrusive thoughts, John swallows the rest of his booze before getting up to explore the house, maybe chat up a few people and take one of them back to his flat. It's not like he adopted the lifestyle of a sad, little pansy, weeping his eyes out whenever Paul socialises on his own. No matter how many complex emotions torture John's sanity, jealousy is not one of them anymore. 

The attraction he experiences towards Paul doesn't bother him either, a pleasant bonus of wiggling away from the nonsensical web of self-denial. John may play a foolish game, yes, but repudiation lacks any appeal to him. Paul is a mesmerising combination of soft and harsh; sweet and acid; polite and rascal...

John would consider being immune to any of it a bigger concern.

Sometimes, when life leaves John wide awake at night, its never-ending questions the only company man can get, he envies Paul's oblivion. It infuriates him greatly and often he finds himself muttering "how dare is he, how dare is he" whenever Paul calls him love or sits so their bodies brush and press together. How dare is he to ignore the open wound he just poured salt into? 

But hope comes hand in hand with the anger. Sporadically, a soothing reminder of the fact their friendship hasn't crumbled down yet. (It's good that Paul is oblivious.) A source of an endless stream of what-if scenarios floating in John's head, at times. (What if he wasn't oblivious?) But most importantly, the evidence of something dangerous sprouting in the unexplored gardens of John's psyche. (Why, for christ's sake, he keeps count of all the time his MALE friend laughed???)

What started as a source of private wanking sessions all those years ago has retreated to the background. John doesn't wonder about how Paul's lips would feel against his, or how loudly the man allows himself to enjoy the moment. He doesn't spend time contemplating the sensation of the ivory skin against his calloused fingers...Instead, which he still struggles to understand, John longs to ease the stress and worries which transform into ashen circles under Paul's eyes every time another article questioning their potential as a band sees the light. He is overwhelmed by the sudden instinct to pamper the younger man, to make sure he eats enough and stays hydrated, something that bears no sense, as John sometimes forgets to take a piss and considers a bag of crisps a dinner rich in nutrients. It doesn't yield to logic from the outside, but the pure gratitude he experiences every time they manage to sneak from the spotlight, just the two of them, affirms his worst nightmare. 

He is in love. 

***

The house turns into a giant mansion when John starts prancing around its many rooms, restlessly searching for someone to momentarily disturb his misery. He joins a few groups, ripples their stagnant conversation with banter before departing again. An idea of seeking help from substances stronger than alcohol or nicotine crosses his mind but he doesn't act on it, too scared of the darkness within it always triggers.

Instead, he enters the grand kitchen, filling up a glass of cold water. The room is of no importance to any of the guests, and John basks in the privacy it offers him, a shadow hiding the slipping mask of content he puts on.

A row of giant french windows presents an enticing view to the gardens and sky, beckoning him to take one step forward, another and another till his nose bumps the transparent surface. John has always considered the night more alluring than the day and doesn't hesitate to scan his surroundings for the door leading to the terrace. 

It's empty, of course, it is because most people do recognize the dangers of frolicking outside in the cold and avoid it out of respect. Not the one to mingle with self-awareness, John lights up a ciggy as if the glowing dot could lure back the fervency of the previous hours. The stars shine bright, a surreal reminiscence of his mother, vague at first, then more forceful, memories causing his eyes to sting with never shed tears. 

He rubs his face in the attempt at scrubbing off the numbness, a constant reminder of how worn out he feels. Another memory resurfaces, him and Paul, Paul and him, crying and talking about their dead mums, looking up to the same sky. For a moment he expects to break down under the intensity it carries, proceeds to take a long drag when nothing happens. If Julia lived, she would understand him, not a stranger to the ambiguity of love herself.

But she is not there, never will, and he can only sign loudly to release the tension before stomping the remnant of the fag and heading back.

***

Everything feels like a fever dream, a scene set on a stage, as the heavy air of too many people occupying the space squeezes John's throat. A beat of irritation pulses in his head upon the realisation that Ringo and George cunningly managed to avoid this mayhem, are now sound asleep, ready for a fresh start tomorrow. Deep down he knows he would choose the same strategy if the invitation wasn't extended by Paul.

A hand clasped around his arms prevents him from dwelling on the whimsicality of the situation, an elderly lady considers it crucial to announce she knows him, casually calling him Sebastian the entire time. 

The encounter evokes a grotesque fear of being watched and inspected, and John sucks in his stomach and narrows his eyes out of habit despite knowing his therapist would label it as an unhealthy coping system. Sometimes John jokes that his existence is an unhealthy coping system, a jest containing more truth than humour.

He whips around, grabs a can of coke from the seemingly infinite stack and adds a couple of drops of rum, the sobriety no longer comfortable coat to wear. Somebody stopped relying on the verbal conversation, and now music is added to the cluster of noises. At least it busies John's mind, the vibrations lulling him to a pleasant ignorance. God, he should write a new song, pick up the guitar more often, it's his occupation after all. Another person has taken his previous spot, a natural consequence of disappearing in the middle of a party, but somehow it only servers as a preview of what would happen if John was rotting 20 feet under ground. Nothing. A few headlines before the silence. Cynthia would probably try to keep his silhouette sharp for Julian's sake. John knows better than to pride himself on being better than his own father. He sits on the floor, his back flush with the wall, blending in the chaos of the crowd, yet isolated.

Someone slides down next to him, invading his personal space. John casts the stranger an annoyed look, sees merely a blurred dot without his glasses that pressed into his head uncomfortably and therefore ended in his pocket. He shuts his eyes to communicate he's not keen on a friendly chat, opts for a discontent grumble, too, just so the message gets through the person's thick skull. No shuffling indicating a departure of the pesky element follows, and John musters the energy to open his eyes and mouth when a familiar voice speaks up.

"You look like a psychic communicating with spirits."

"Oh, fuck off," John snaps back, casting Paul a curious gaze. "Does the unfortunate bird know an empty bet awaits her tonight?"

Something akin to distress flickers over Paul's face before he catches himself and rolls his eyes, scooting closer, so they don't have to scream to maintain a conversation.

"Was lookin' for you, actually..." He trails off, fingers lifting the empty can and fiddling with it. It catches John's attention, kicks him out of the cave of disassociation he had climbed into, right into the arms of the real world. The last time Paul favoured him over a girl was when Julia flew across the street to the world of deaders. Half a year of the edges of their friendship smoothening, six months of sitting side to side in John's room, and back to normal it went.

It tastes like melancholy, and John clears his throat, quirking an eyebrow in a silent question. The answer he receives is wrapped in the intense gaze, its meaning crystal clear. 

"Nothin' just these babies," he whispers, holding up the empty can and the ancient package of the nicotine supply. Droplets of sweat appear on his neck, right under the tight collar, and he can't adjust the damned thing unless he wants Paul to know how fucking scared he is to relapse.

Paul stares at him with pursed lips, detecting possible lies, before a nod concludes he believes him. The silence stretches between them, the kind that would easily trick John into believing they are jotting down their first songs, dreaming of the future, if it wasn't for too many consequences of the time that has passed. The remark itself touches something sensitive, too, for John can't help the disappointment when he learns Paul sought his company just to ensure he wasn't purchasing heroin. Like an exhausted mother tagging after her troublesome child. The doubts, until now meticulously tucked away, take the reins, provoking an emotional response.

"It's crap," John hears himself saying despite knowing it's not what he really has on his mind. It serves as a dirty trick to release his anger. Perhaps to earn himself a handful from Paul. An equivalent of throwing fists in the dark streets or snapping at the mundane question. To onlookers nothing reveals the storm of too many conflicts hissing in his head. Most of them view him as an arrogant and rude has-been, someone whose shadow can polish their own warped personalities. Maybe Paul perceives him the same now. John's cheeks grow red at the possibility, yet he doesn't reformulate the previous statement.

Paul doesn't spare him a warning glance as he pats his pockets for a cigarette to light. The atmosphere wavers. John senses it, incapable of changing the course of the burning ball their interaction resembles. He settles for mirroring the action, placing the butt of a new fag between his lips, feigning detachment.

"Yeah, wanna go to my place?"

John barks a laugh at that, the promise of them, the most influential writing duo of all the fucking time, leaving this pompous bash early&together tickles him with its feather of inconceivability. The absence of Paul's laugh joining the cackle dawns on him unexpectedly, and he shuts up, confusedly turning around to see Paul's face. He often forgets about what is hidden under that immaculate facade.

"'Ave a nice song in your pocket?" 

"Not really."

John mutes the feeble voice telling him it's going to be about band, must be. Either Paul already organised another tour or, and that overlaps John's biggest worries, he realised his success doesn't require the assistance of a junkie.

"Fine with me," he shrugs, following Paul through the labyrinth of the hallways in a trance till the cloak of night grants them anonymity. This time nothing resembles their past and John has to gnaw at the inside of his cheek not to chicken out. As their taxi sails through the dark streets, he fails to notice he is not the only one on the verge of crawling out of their skin.

***

The arrival at Cavendish surprises John, his head producing enough scripts to overshadow reality. He regrets staying in the cab is not an option before stretching his legs and trailing behind Paul who proceeds to struggle to unlock the doors, something so out of character for him that John spends the 5 minutes it takes for the bassist's coordination to return completely silent. 

"Tea?" Paul asks once they are inside, hanging his coat.

"What the fuck," John screams internally, thrown off balance because he used the entire ride to sketch his future once he would be kicked out of the band, finally settling for a flat in New York and a house somewhere where nobody can be arsed to care about his existence. Surrounded by a plethora of cats, yes, at least 10 of them. So, why does Paul act like they are indulging a secret tradition of theirs, John may as well prepare himself for a chit chat about the weather, bit dry innit, nights getting colder, yeah, murky autumn ahead, good grief!

"Why not," he replies, shedding his own coat and letting it fall to the floor. Granted, picking it up would slow him down once Paul decides to drop the bomb, but such trivialities have never interested him. Martha is away, spending time with Jim, and the absence of her enthusiasm only highlights the emptiness of the house not so different from the one splayed on John's face.

Paul emerges with two cups, and they stare at each other like two strange people invited to the same tea party. Any attempt at reading his band mate's expression goes in vain, but John senses he doesn't witness the typical 'I-have-no-feelings' mask. More like 'I-have-too-many-feelings' if he was about to ponder it more. And he is not.

They end up in the bedroom under the veil of listening to a new LP. John joins the masquerade merrily, pretending nothing askew is happening as he climbs onto the bed, outwardly ignorant with a little bell of concern ringing constantly in the back of his head. He thinks of all the instances he picked up chess and dismissed it out of boredom, now missing a pinch of logic to muffle the frantic beating of his heart.

Paul moves silently in the dim of a crappy lamp, the only source of illumination in the room. To the spotlight he waltzes, dips into the darkness a moment later as if performing a private show. A daunting thought shakes John awake, about Paul planning to murder him, simultaneously keeping up the act of politeness to the very end, a product of the years spent under Jim's conduct.

Finally, the old record player from a flea market croaks once, twice before it spits out some old tunes from the 30s. Contrary to John's expectation nothing changes. Paul's back remains facing him, the man himself preferring to fiddle with buttons that won't improve the quality of the sound whatsoever.

Too many crushed dreams and plans boil in John's stomach, igniting dusted memories and transforming them into confused anger.

"I'm still here, you twat," he spits through gritted teeth, straining to sound indifferent and not like a little kid shouting 'mommy, mommy, look at me' because he can't stand being ignored. Thankfully, nothing he could grab and throw rests within his reach. John has read enough Christie's books to predict how it would end. 

"Right," Paul mutters, turning around. Their eyes meet for the first time, and the intensity dries John's mouth. He prays his brain would supply a sharp quip to drag down the seriousness, to prevent Paul from stepping closer and closer.

"Right," his best friend repeats more to himself before he leans in...

...well, it's a mere brush of lips, a fleeting touch that John wouldn't even recognise as a kiss was it a woman's mouth. It ends before he can react at all, and the über-mysterious character, the initiator of this bizarre game, becomes Paul again. John witnesses the fall of the wall, too stupefied to cheer at the reappearance of the familiar person.

"Shit, I-I'm sorry, John, sorrysorrysorry, I didn't...I did--"

Paul begins to panic, thousands of contrasting emotions seeping through his eyes while the rest of the face stays blank. Apology after apology is uttered, each getting more urgent than the previous when John doesn't speak up. He looks frightened like he expects a punch or a verbal attack while slowly retreating while holding his hands up in surrender.

Not trusting the words to convey the frenzied state of mind, John seizes a hold of one slender arm to prevent Paul from withdrawing completely. The man startles at the contact, face red and shoulders slouched in defeat. It feels like they both aged 50 years in the last hour.

"Do it again," John rasps, unsure whether he is picking up the broken pieces or crushing them entirely. A pressing sense of inability surrounds them, hinting that the events of the following seconds will determine the course of their future. Paul's eyes widen impossibly, a wrinkle crumbling the skin. He shakes his head, tentatively at first till it morphs into a trashing fit as if he just realised the consequences of his action and John's request is a vile jab.

"No, I'm sorry, John, don't--"

The babbling is cut by a rapid intake of breath when John dares to place a fleeting kiss to the tender skin of the inner side of Paul's wrist. "Please," he begs with a cracking voice.

_"...it don't mean a thing if it ain't got the swing..."_ the record screams as Paul obliges. 

John reciprocates immediately, hands tracing the curve of Paul's waist and sliding down to his hips in a gesture automatised by countless nights spent visualising something he never expected to do in real life. A groan leaves Paul's throat, and John tugs him forward till the other man has to grab onto his shoulder if he doesn't fancy a fall.

_"...doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah..."_

It's quite an experience, an odd mixture of hopeful and hopeless. 

Paul hovers above him, confidently unsure, pressing his soft lips to John's chapped ones again and again. The act smells of innocence compared to all debauchery they have tasted, but John's heart has never pounded faster. Everything fades next to Paul -- the fame, the pain, the temptation of heroin, the maddening sense of inadequacy. It's the only addiction John doesn't wish to overcome.

_"...just give that rhythm everything that you got..."_

He moans. A loud, perhaps too loud, reaction to hands raking through the auburn strands of hair. He would guilt himself into embarrassment for voicing his neediness, but Paul stutters in his movements and lands on John's lap.

The direction their interaction leads to becomes painfully apparent when their lower halves collide, punching raspy inhales from their chests.

"Is this-fuck alright?" Paul asks, hesitant to bring his entire weight on John. 

"Absolutely."

This time, John's the one to initiate the contact, hugging Paul's form and kissing the corners of his lips as he guides them back. Their breaths hitch only to come out as unregular puffs. John gives up fighting for dominance, for once, unable to name one reason worth maintaining his leader image. He lets Paul cradle his chin, doesn't hesitate to open his mouth for the rubbery tongue. His own hands are glued to the meat of Paul's bum, gingerly mapping its curves and venturing under the now untucked shirt.

They tumble into a rhythm with effortlessness they conquer music charts with -- a bit of Lennon, a pinch of McCartney, and suddenly no one can tell where the other begins. The record player has been spinning in vain for a while now, but neither of them minds, no longer in need of Duke Elliot's advice. Paul's presence lingers everywhere, from the curious fingers dancing on the skin under John's shirt and half-swallowed moans to the sharp whiff of his cologne. Gone is the initial reluctance, and he doesn't relent until John melts under his touch, sinking to the open arms of the sheets.

John can't remember the last time he has been intimate with anybody, who he knew more about than their nickname and favourite drink. The usual routine of anonymous sex contrasts harshly with the affectionate ministrations tickling his skin. No longer the slide of their lips resembles a wrestling match, gradually slowing down into soft pecks until Paul pulls back, watching him.

"What?" John questions, a drop of insecurity stilling the ardent flow of his blood.

Paul shrugs before closing the gap between them, a mysterious smile curving his lips.

"You are breathtaking."

The words summon the entire army of John's insecurities, ordering him to oppose, to list the reasons why he barely classifies as a decent human being. But Paul gently kisses the slope of his nose, temples, the apples of his cheeks, and it hushes the panic like a lullaby. 

The lips trail lower, follow the line of John's jaw before sharp teeth graze the skin of his neck. The atmosphere thickens again, adjusts the tempo to the symphony of erratic hands, crumbling garments and grinding bodies. For once, it doesn't carry a sense of perversion but understanding. With every layer of fabric they peel off, their most vulnerable sides are exposed, and they can read the same worries on the other's face when they look up, their underwear the only barrier between their naked skin.

Paul palms him, drawing out a groan at the unexpected touch. John strains to contain the excitement not to snap his hips to achieve the craved friction. Grounding himself by embedding a hand into the silky mass of dark hair, he signs contently when Paul's fingers venture under the waistband.

Their eyes stay locked the entire time as if the moment would warp and vanish with a flutter of lashes. John shuffles to perch his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, something seventeen-years-old Lennon would not allow even with a gun pointed to his head, but today's John would never forgive himself if he didn't adore every single freckle on Paul's face. 

"Beautiful," he whispers, savouring the way Paul's face heats up. Still, the way the boy gnaws at his lip suggests his confidence is mostly feigned. John trusts touch more than anything verbal, opts for the ancient gesture of fingers imitating spider's legs down Paul's shoulder as if they are facing a herd of stinky journalists and not the great question of whether now is the right time to go starkers. It earns him a smile, not the boisterous kind they built their fame on, but the boyish grin that speaks of secrets they've shared before cameras started to consider them objects worth capturing. Like the summer when they still could pass for kids and dared each other to steal an apple from the grumpy farmer's garden. John didn't doubt the old grouch's intentions when the first bullet bruised his cheek. The same smile eased the sting of alcohol when Paul cleaned him up in the shadows of the Forthlin Road. John's lips prickled to kiss him then, haven't stopped since.

"I, ehm...I don't know what to do." Paul mutters apologetically. And perhaps it's the delivery or something buried in his eyes, but John understands he knows about all of it -- about the kisses shared in the retching bathrooms in Hamburg, the dust of prellies coating his tongue; about the men John has taken back to his hotel room and who later received a female name and face when they shared their experience; about the piles of half-finished lyrics when he didn't bother to censor each he and him and his which would become she and her, was it a single worth recording.

The realisation unravels an ocean of freedom, its crashing waves drowning the fear of tomorrow. John nods, smiles back and flips them over. 

For a moment he thinks Paul, the biggest I-can-do-everything-on-my-own you have ever met, will call it off. But he lies flushed under him, wide eyes following every moment and pale chest heaving. 

A grand fermata of silence knots their tongues and parches their throats. The time ceases to exist, their eye contact becoming the only unit of measurement John is willing to accept. All those years and he has never predicted Paul would be the one to lit the match.

"Everything's alright?" He asks. A question, plead and wish all the same.

Paul nods, curling one of his hands around John's neck to bring him close. It carries all that needs to be said for now.

Feeling bolder, John rids them of their boxers, keeping an eye on his partner like it's just another song they need to master. A sweet moan reaches his ears when he smears the drops of precum on Paul's dick, and he rushes to kiss all the way up to the skin under Paul's ear. The arousal guides his actions, covers their bodies with sweat when he finally takes them into his hand. The emotional closeness, ethereal, ethereal, blossoms into raw pleasure and suddenly Paul is scratching his back, nails leaving red trails, while he repeats John's name, again and again, each syllable another step to the climax.

John can't resist it much longer, joining the chant, a string of moans, whispers and Paul's name escaping his lips muffled by the protruding collarbone he kissed just a second ago.

  
  


But those who climb up often fall, especially when their high doesn't stand on the base of reality. John realises it with bittersweet pain curling around his bones, cringes at the way he covers Paul's body, because no matter what is done and uttered in the shadows, the sense of responsibility reappears with the first beams of light.

He lifts himself to roll away and fuck off, doesn't expect to be pulled back with force. Paul holds him, stumping any protest with languid kisses before lifting one of their posh shirts to wipe the mess and covering them with a blanket, any additional words unnecessary. 

***

John's raving mind bangs the gong of consciousness at 5 am, the time shown at the ugly digital clock Paul received from a fan and hasn't bothered to replace it since. Any thought regarding the possible disappearance is dismissed by softly snoring Paul, whose chest is pressed against John's back. 

The second time he escapes the captivity of sleep lacks the previous pleasantries. The bed is too large for one person, its cold sheets the embodiment of a hard sole kicking one's back. John's mad and annoyed, yet wills himself to calmly evaluate the fact he wasn't born to lead the life of Cinderella. True love against cruelty and all that shit.

Staying in bed loses its charm when the sleep doesn't come back, insinuating there are things to be dealt with. John groans like a stubborn child, finds his lenses and rises into a sitting position. The room doesn't look any different, which indicates Paul didn't decide to secretly move to Bali. Hating the absence of clothes or rather the nudity of his own skin, John searches for his garments, hoping Paul chose his own shirt to dirty it with drying spunk. It doesn't matter the second John spots the pile of freshly washed laundry. HIS LAUNDRY, and the tight coil of frustrated despair untangles. That sleazy fucker! He can live with Martha shedding fur everywhere, but as soon as it's John's clothes piling on the floor, a hygienic team is called to perform their duty.

It reflects John's deepest fear, extinguishing the smoking coals of every maybe he holds onto. Paul doesn't want to remember, preferring the scene to be scrubbed of the remnants of their past. John's existence is now the only reminder of the filth. He can consider himself lucky there isn't a sage burning above his head. Or a priest ready to rinse his soul and set him on the road of redemption. 

Despite the original plan of aborting any further interaction, John treads to the bathroom, reminiscing of how the women they had bedded felt when they kicked them out in the following morning. In the privacy of the shower, it seems insignificant as if the deeds of the previous night could be waived off. The magic of the hot water dissipates the moment he steps out, replaced by chilly tremors. 

He dresses up, brushes his teeth, the existence of his fucking toothbrush in Paul's house a funny fact that separates him from the anonymous herd of one-night stands. Not that it serves as anything else, but in a situation like this John's confidence resembles a collapsed balloon and calls for breaths of fake joy. 

The idea of jumping out of the window; running away; throwing his entire existence to the dumpster and never looking back, shines attractively, but John knows better than to step into its trap. Everything, Paul especially, is engraved under his skin, always will be, and nothing offers him the luxury of forgetfulness without the side effect of suffering. He would scratch his skin raw just to dig out the memories, regret the decision only to repeat the action. A pitiable Prometheus without Heracles.

The stairs stretch on forever till he finally finds himself on the ground floor, straining his ears to locate the person who has been just his best friend 24 hours prior. Finally, a click of metal echoes from the direction of the kitchen, and John tiptoes to the source, aiming to observe the situation before acting.

Paul is reorganising the contents of the numerous cupboards, but judging according to his indifference to the unbearable rattling it's probably just an attempt at keeping his hands occupied. "Serves him right," John thinks, glad he is not alone in the pit of overthinking.

A primal side of him suggests he owns to his actions of yesterday, approaches the man and kisses him -- maybe goodbye, maybe hello, but now. In the broad light just an hour before noon. It would be more real, and that's what craves, isn't it, real memories. John shakes his head amusedly, the cheek of his own mind to boycott his own dignity.

Instead, he inches to the doorframe, watching intently for a sign Paul has registered his presence. It doesn't happen for 5 minutes and more drastic steps consisting of actually speaking up prove to be crucial.

"Turned into a housemaid overnight, 'aven't you?" 

Paul lets go of the massive pot, and it collides with the floor, tumbling away as if it has no interest to witness their dialogue. John sees the way Paul's shoulders tense before he whisks around composed as ever. 

"And you? Became a sleeping beauty, eh?"

John cackles because he had anxiously awaited scolding or a brief meeting to establish the future rules of their relationship, and the verbal banter is a welcomed distraction. Paul's eyes lit up at the sound, then dim again when no retort is thrown his way, John's mind stubbornly focused on the crinkled corners of his eyes and messy head, no matter how many times he repeats the simple mantra of 'no no no'.

"I, ehm, made you breakfast."

And true to his words there lies a plate with scrambled eggs next to the mug of coffee. John blinks at the scene, reluctantly walks to the table and takes a seat. 

"It's cold." Paul comments, his fingers curling around the loops of his waistband.

"Yeah." John retorts, the reality sifting through the sieve of his dreams.

"I can make you another one if--"

"--I want to talk about tomorrow."

Paul nods, wordlessly sitting on the other chair, immediately worming his hands under his bum. Now given the space, John curses he demanded it in the first place, his so-called talent with words flipping him a bird.

"Right, ehm, so, I-what it was about?" 

"Pardon?"

"Was it sex? Or-or curiosity? Felt lonely and didn't want to put any effort? Was it some kind of a joke?"

"You."

John opens his mouth like a fish, taking a gulp of the now-disgusting coffee to wake himself up.

"...'m sorry if it seemed like a joke. I just--" Paul's hand reappears and taps on the wooden surface "--for years, I've seen you flirting with all those men, taking them home, letting them use you, and, well, you just never noticed me that way. And, then I got scared you would get into heroin again, but you didn't, so, I thought I'd leave you alone, but you looked so alone and fragile and...I wanted to talk, I swear I did, but you started to be angry, and I realised I needed to do something, and y'know, I did, and you asked me for more and I-I didn't want to stop."

"Oh."

John touches the fork this time, realises it's not the best idea to have a snack in the middle of a confession and reaches to cover Paul's hand instead like it's a butterfly he wants to shelter from the wind. He braces himself for rejection, after all, Paul didn't profess his undying love, merely hinted that he pitied him.

"So, technically--" why is he so goddamn nervous, he has rehearsed different versions of the same message countless time, but it drags out like he learnt to speak just 3 weeks ago the moment it leaves his mouth "--if, I mean we don't have to, but technically--" bloody hell, Paul is blushing and his lips are parted which would predict a positive reply but, STAY ON THE TRACK, LENNON "--if I kissed you now, would that be alright? We can just forget about yesterday i-if you prefer that?"

Their bodies start to gravitate towards each other as if the marrow within their bones knows all the answers to the enquiries they feared to ask.

"May I?" John remembers Mimi's lectures about manners. Ignores the fact he may as well puke out his reckless heart if the answer he hopes for doesn't come.

Then Paul smirks, a micro flick of the left corner of his lips, and John knows, simply knows, like he knew that he would achieve the career of a rockstar, that the hex of loneliness has been broken.

His theory about daylight proves to be right when their lips touch. The kiss lacks the polish of mischief it puts on in the shadows, reduces the magical illusion to two friends hesitantly crossing the street towards becoming lovers in a dusty kitchen. 

Perfection doesn't grace this moment. John's sweaty palms are dangling uselessly next to his body before he finally claps Paul's shoulders, a little too forcefully, and almost knocks the dark-haired man over. Still, even the most glamorous scenes of Hollywood lose their sparkle, because it's them, John and Paul, Paul and John, kissing. 

It goes on and on. Teeth and flesh, shallow puffs of air and stuttering hands. The day charms even a night owl like John with its stillness, and he realises how many years passed since he held someone like this. Since he was held like this. 

He's just one step away from getting stuck in the mud of incoherent thoughts when Paul tugs at his lower lip for the last time before pulling back.

A hand touches John's cheek, once. Then travels higher to smooth the hair falling into his eyes. The unusual tenderness cracks the thin barrier consisting of John's inhibitions, and he leans into the touch, trying to dismiss the feeling of staining the moment with the truth.

"I-It's going to be harsh if..," the sentence hangs there unfinished, open to the option of no if's. A definitive _punktum_.

"I know."

There's no hesitancy or made up cheerfulness, John would notice that from the close proximity of almost sitting on Paul's lap. It scares him. The mere idea of them coming out, someday, wakes up the little gremlin inside, the one who complains about dreams being better than the reality. John grips Paul's sleeve, and in return, the other man squeezes his hand. It dawns on him Paul had to think about the future, too, as he doesn't belong to people who throw around promises lacking meaning.

It's fucking happening.

"Christ, Brian he...he's going to have a grand laugh--" John grunts, relishing the chuckle buried in the skin of his neck "--or George, bloody hell, I called him a poof for ages.."

Paul doesn't release his hand as his expression grows more serious. "It's going to take a while for me to too, y'know"-- he winces, shuffling awkwardly-- "get used to this. Us. That is. I...well, I have never been in a situation like this--" 

John's mouth opens, but Paul's already stringing another paragraph with the cadence of a cannon. 

"--b-but I want to try, and I'll have you if you...if you will have me." 

John's heart somersaults in the prison of the ribcage and he wordlessly envelopes him in a hug.

"Of course, you idiot, of course, I'll have you." He refrains from raising his voice to add something about Geminis being blind to one's suffering, pushes the idea back when Paul finally stops fidgeting and peeks up from where he has been inspecting the loose thread of John's shirt.

"Even if the ol' good Jim's going to demand me head on a stick."

They frown briefly at the same time because, in all honesty, not only John's assumption about Paul's father DOES overlap with the possible events of the near future, but it paints the picture of how Mimi will react. 

Oh god.

Paul breaks first, a giggle growing stronger and stronger until it climbs all the way up to his shoulders. John only tightens the hold, bursting into a laughing fit of his own. The myrth wraps the subtle confessions like invisible presents to celebrate the disappearance of the fear of the uknown.

John wonders how many days they have wasted with sealed lips and idiotic "just buddies, innit" pats on their shoulder. He declares it pointless when glimpses of the last years flash in front of his eyes. Maybe fate truly exists, plotting thousands of micro stories that lead to the inevitable. Maybe it's the magic of a few drops of vodka and sleep deprivation. He doesn't care. 

For now, sharing whacky theories about their relatives provides a cocoon of intimacy they have longed for. 

***

John wants to kiss Paul. That's a fact. Has been for over a decade now. But for the first time, in the kitchen full of devices neither of them knows how to operate, the wish doesn't invite the abyss of self-hatred. Paul's warm body grounds him with its weight, the rhythms of their breath creating the perfect synchronisation. He kisses the special spot behind Paul's ear, dark hair tickling his Roman nose; the curve of his round stubbled cheek, smelling the powdery french soap and, finally, capturing the pouty lips.

The voices in his head got it all wrong, nothing compares to the reality of having your feelings reciprocated.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, it hangs awkwardly on the verge of being too serious and not serious enough, but I'd just edit it over and over till the ripe age of 80, and my plans for that period of time consist of becoming a detective, showing off my botox and baking, so, this is the last version, I'm afraid :):)
> 
> you can let me know how you like it...or not (PLEASE DO, I've been staring at this for 4 weeks)
> 
> obligatory mention of my [tumblr](https://dusted-0negin.tumblr.com/)


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